


Find The River

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Adam Milligan is a Winchester, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awesome Bobby Singer, Awesome Jody Mills, Child Abuse, Comfort/Angst, Domestic Violence, Family Drama, Gen, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Karen Singer is alive, Kid Adam Milligan, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: In an alternative universe without supernatural and hunting, John Winchester and his three sons move to Sioux Falls, where John goes on spending his meager minimum wage on booze. 17-year-old Dean does his best to take care of his little brothers and protect them from their father's violence, determined not to let Child Protective Services find out about the abuse and separate them from each other.But Dean isn't as alone as he thinks; some caring people suspect of what is happening behind the Winchesters' closed door, and set out to find a way to help the boys.





	1. Light Years To Go

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Growing Up Too Soon](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/326256) by BlueSteelLove1207. 



> Mind the warnings and the tags, people, I want you to enjoy, not trigger yourselves up. There's also language, because, you know, Winchesters (and Bobby).
> 
> I used the same basic premise of the story that inspired me to write this, but other than that they're different. The author of the original story was informed, and gave permission to post mine.
> 
> The title of the story is one of my favorite R.E.M. songs. The chapter titles are lyrics from that song.

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota, February 1996_

Castiel Novak stood by the wide stairs at the front of the school building and watched his preschoolers as they left for the day, running around the sidewalk and filling the freezing air with cheery, high-pitched squalls. He smiled absently at their seemingly endless energy. He really loved those kids, it was almost a shame they had to grow up.

The children who weren't put on the school bus were picked up one by one by parents, grandparents, older siblings, or babysitters, who were either retired old ladies or teenagers earning some pocket-money watching their neighbors' kids during the afternoon. This was a daily routine for him and the other teachers to make sure the children were being safely picked up from school, but today he was watching one child in particular. He was actually watching him in particular for a few days now; the five-and-some-year-old was usually picked up by an older brother who looked to be twelve or thirteen, but Castiel remembered that about twice a week there was another brother who came, too – a boy of about sixteen or seventeen from the next-door high school. Castiel had already confirmed through his student's personal file – a new one, as the child was only enrolled this schoolyear – that it was actually the eldest brother who was listed as the emergency contact for the kid, with the boys' father listed only second.

He didn't remember on what days the eldest brother usually came, and he wasn't entirely sure there _were_ fixed days, so he just had to wait and see, as he had those last few days ever since the kid's disturbing remark. Said kid's sudden movement caught his eye; this seemed to be his lucky day. The preschooler was running towards both older brothers who were now making their way amidst the crowd of children.

Castiel hurried to catch up, careful not to knock over any of the bite-sized students that crossed his path. He reached the trio as the eldest was straightening back up after giving his little brother a hug.

"Dean Winchester?" He asked, panting just a bit. Three sets of eyes turned to him from different heights. The highest-set ones – beautiful green – narrowed some.

"Who's asking?"

The baby brother pulled on the eldest's hand. "It's my teacher, Mr. Novak."

The green eyes cleared immediately. "Oh, hi, Mr. Novak. Sorry. Yes, I'm Dean Winchester."

"Pleased to meet you," Castiel shook the boy's offered hand. "I was actually not sure about the correct name, I had to check Adam's personal file for it. See, he said your name was 'De'. But sometimes children at this age still mispronounce."

Dean let out a chuckle. "He doesn't mispronounce, he just likes calling me that."

"And you must be Sammy," Castiel extended his hand to the third brother who was eyeing him beneath long brownish-gold bangs.

"Sam," the boy shook his hand willingly enough.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Novak? Adam doing okay in school?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. He's one of my best students," Adam's brilliant smile could have put the sun to shame, and Dean smiled down at him and patted the boy's head over his wool hat.

"Hear that, Adam? Good job, kiddo. I'm so proud of you," it would have seemed that Adam's smile couldn't possibly grow any wider, but it did, evoking a smile from Castiel. But he had to remember why he seeked Adam's brother out in the first place.

"I would, however, like to clarify something with you, Dean. Can we step aside for a few minutes?"

Dean's smile faltered a little but his voice remained light. "Sure. Sam?"

The middle brother took hold of Adam's hand and nodded.

Castiel led Dean a few yards away to where a low wall marked the edge of the school's front lawn. The crowd of children and parents had thinned considerably, but the noise was still enough to mask their conversation from Sam and Adam.

"A few days ago, Adam said something that I found disturbing," there was no easy way to go about this, so Castiel simply let it out. "He said your father hurts you."

Dean's smile had already gone while they walked, and now he studied Castiel's face without any notable emotion. " 'You', as in all three of us?"

"He was talking just about you, Dean, I believe."

Dean's smile returned for a second. "Dad might have swatted my ass a couple of times when I mouthed off, but it was a long time ago. I'd be surprised if Adam actually remembers. And I'm very well-behaved now, aren't I?" Castiel didn't respond, and Dean sighed. "Mr. Novak, it's not easy being a single parent like my dad is. He works two jobs and the money's still tight. I try to help as much as I can, they let me do a little cleanings at my school after hours to make some cash, and I take care of Sam and Adam and the housework. But still, my dad has most of the load, and you can imagine he's not the most patient man when he finally gets home and has to deal with us three boys. It was tough even before he took Adam in-"

"Took Adam in? I don't understand. He's adopted?"

"No. Doesn't it say on your file? Adam had a different mother than Sam and me, a sort of a fling for my dad. I don't think he even knew Adam was born, but his mom had Dad registered as Adam's father. She passed away when Adam was one year old, and the authorities tracked Dad down."

"That must have been quite a shock for you and Sam."

"Yeah. But Adam's irresistible," Dean looked over at his brothers with a smile. Then he returned his eyes to Castiel and shrugged. "Our mom died when Sammy was six months old and I was almost five. So by the time Adam came I was already taking care of one kid. What's one more, right?"

"How old were you when Adam came?" Castiel was trying to take all this information in and felt overwhelmed.

"Twelve."

"And you took care of two children?"

"It's not that hard. They're good kids. Really good kids. And Sam helps a lot with Adam. But as I said, my dad is under a lot of stress, and sometimes it can get ugly. He yells, he throws things. Punched the wall once or twice. He's an ex-marine, a pretty big guy, and when he's pissed off like that he looks kinda scary. Adam, he's a very sensitive kid, and I can see where he gets that idea. But really, Mr. Novak, that's all there is. Dad doesn't hurt me."

"I see," Castiel looked at Dean, pondering.

"It's the money issue, mainly. You know how it is. But as soon as I graduate I can get a full-time job and things will be better for us."

Castiel nodded, wrapped in thought. Dean looked at him with a steady gaze and waited. Finally, Castiel said, "well, I'm glad we could have this talk."

Dean smiled, obviously relieved. "Thanks for your concern, Mr. Novak. We should be getting home now, so if that's all?..."

"Yes, of course," Dean was already turning to leave when Castiel spoke again. "Let me write down my personal number for you. If I can help with Adam or anything else, call me." He fumbled in his pockets, found half a pencil and an old receipt, jotted down his number and handed it over to Dean. "Anything. Alright, Dean?"

Dean looked at the note, folded it and put it in his jeans pocket. "Thank you." He smiled again at the teacher and joined his brothers. Castiel watched the three of them walk away, Adam holding both his brothers' hands.

Dean's explanations were reasonable enough. Sadly, the schools in this area had their fair share of struggling families; Adam's wasn't the only one consisting of a single parent bowing under the load, and Dean wasn't the only teenager doing some crappy after-school job while looking after younger siblings. He saw the kid's home address on the file – a neighborhood of cheap rental homes – and the boys' hand-me-down clothes, worn backpacks and thin frames. Sadder still, in times of financial distress, people tended to be short-tempered, so that part of the story was plausible, too. And Adam was indeed a sensitive child; he might have heard yelling and objects breaking and came to a reasonable enough conclusion. It all made perfect sense.

But Castiel had an uneasy feeling in his gut.

A very uneasy feeling.

He watched the Winchester brothers until they turned a corner and then sighed heavily and walked slowly back to the school.


	2. Ginger, Lemon, Indigo

As soon as they were out of the teacher's sight, Dean led his brothers into a little alley away from the street and crouched in front of Adam.

"Adam, did you tell Mr. Novak that Dad was hurting me?" He asked, trying to sound calm so the kid wouldn't get upset, but Adam's face grimaced anyway.

"You mad at me, De?" He whispered.

Dean cursed himself silently and touched Adam's face. "No, of course not. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I don't want you to be in trouble."

"I'm not in trouble."

"Dean," Sam's voice sounded concerned. Dean glanced up at him.

"I got this, Sam. Adam," he took both of the boy's hands in his and looked into the big blue eyes that were on the verge of tears. "You remember that we talked about personal things?" Adam nodded. "And we said that sometimes what's happening at home is a family's personal thing?" Adam nodded again. "We said that this is a personal thing, the times when Daddy gets mad. You remember we said that? You have a lot of things at home you can share with your friends and your teachers, right? Like how we watch TV together, or play on the playground, or read a bedtime story. You can tell about all those nice things, can't you?" Adam gave another nod. "But not the… the other things. The other things make people feel sad, and when you think about them they make _you_ feel sad, and I don't want you ever feeling sad. Okay?"

Adam snuffled a little and tried to smile. " 'Kay."

"Good boy," Dean got up and held Adam's hand, ready to get back on their way, when Sam touched his arm.

"Maybe we should tell somebody," he murmured.

Dean took a breath. "Yeah, we can do that, sure. And they might even believe us and lock Dad up. You know what's going to happen next? CPS's gonna to take over, and put us in foster care. Separately. They'll have no problem finding a family for Adam because he's still so little. You might have to wait a while longer in an orphanage until somebody takes you in. Me, I'm too old for anyone to want me, so they'll just dump my ass in some boys' home with a bunch of juvenile delinquents till I turn eighteen and they can kick me out on the street. And by then I wouldn't know where to even begin looking for you." Sam was staring at him with big hazel eyes, and Dean sighed. "Look, it wouldn't be long now. When I'm eighteen I can get legal custody of you two, and then we'll talk, get it all out, everything. Just one year, I promise. This ends as soon as I'm legal and not a minute later. But not a minute before, either. I won't have you taken away from me, Sammy. In the meantime, I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, you and Adam."

"You need to keep yourself safe, too," Sam said, very quietly.

"I can handle it. Don't worry," Sam nodded, but didn't look convinced.

Well, it was the best Dean could do right now. He led his brothers out of the alley and back home.

Dad wasn't going to be back for another few hours, and Dean could get things done in relative peace. He sat Sam and Adam with some cookies and juice to do their homework by the kitchen table while he cleaned the little one-story rental house – the place was never going to look really clean, there was only so much he could do about the beat-up furniture, scratched bathtub and age-stained floor, but he tried his best; he'd be damned if he'd let the boys get sick because of toxic mold or dust-mites or whatever germs this God-forsaken dump attracted. He gathered the laundry he was going to run later to the laundromat along with his own homework, which he planned to do while he waited on the laundry.

Sam and Adam called Dean to check their work, and he praised both of them warmly and sent them off to watch a show on the flickering TV while he finished making dinner. He was good with stretching out leftovers, and could whip almost anything into a decent-looking casserole. His dad usually didn't care one way or the other, by the time he got home he was too tired and hungry, and at least somewhat – if not very – drunk, and just wolfed everything down. The boys were a different issue altogether; even if they didn't like the food they'd still eat, because they knew there was nothing else. But they would leave half of it on the plate, their little faces grimacing as they forced down whatever food they did eat. Dean hated seeing that. And they were already so goddamn _thin_. So Dean came up with new ways to cook their plain, basic food, and every now and again managed to shoplift some fancy spice from the grocery store so he could upgrade his brothers' dinner.

Dean was crouched in front of the fridge taking inventory for his next grocery run when he heard the lock turn. He stood up rapidly and glanced at his watch – two hours early. Damn it. The sound of the TV went immediately down as the three Winchester boys waited almost breathlessly to see in what mood the Head of the Household was in tonight.

It wasn't good. Dean could smell the whiskey all the way the kitchen. He came to the doorway and glanced over at his brothers who were huddled together on the old couch, gave them a quick smile of reassurance, took a breath and went to meet his father.

"Hi, Dad," he said. John Winchester only grunted as he struggled to get his coat off. Dean gently helped him out of it and hanged the coat on the rack by the door. "You're home early."

"Damn machine broke in the factory, sent me home. That's five hours' worth of pay I just lost." Which meant John had used his unexpected free time to down some booze at the nearest bar, thus shrinking his paycheck even further. "There's food around here or what?"

"Yeah, I'll get it out now. Sam, Adam, go wash up," Dean set the table as his father sank into his chair. With a little luck, he was drunk enough to fall asleep after he filled his stomach, so Dean allowed himself some hope for a quiet evening.

"Dean, can you come in here?" Sam was at the doorway, his expression tensed. Dean followed him to the bathroom. Adam was standing there near tears.

"What is it?" Dean asked, trying to conceal his alarm.

"I'm not hungry," Adam whimpered. "I ate the cookies and now I don't think I can eat dinner."

Dean bit his lip. The cookies were a calculated risk; Dad liked it when they all set down to dinner together – whenever he wasn't out drinking, that is – and Dean needed to make his brothers hang on through the long afternoon until dinnertime. But he counted on Dad arriving much later than he did, and now those goddamned dollar-fifty cookies backfired on him. There was no way Dad would let pass any of the boys sitting at the table playing with their food.

He tried to think quickly. "Okay, what if you take tiny bites and just chew them a long time? Like a bubble gum? Dad'll fall asleep soon, you just need to pretend you're eating until he does. Can you do that? You'll try for me, won't you?" Adam nodded, snuffling. "That's my ace."

He exchanged a look with Sam over Adam's head as they returned to the kitchen and the younger boys sat down while Dean served the steaming casserole. He put enough in Adam's plate for it to look like a proper serving, but far less than what he'd usually be given. The idea to just get Adam a smaller plate occurred to him, but it was too late to switch it now. He sat down and prayed for dinner to just be behind them.

While John scooped the food hungrily, Sam pecked at his plate and Dean ate mechanically, not even tasting what he put in his mouth. They were both glancing at Adam, who took a bite and chewed ever so slowly, swallowed with apparent difficulty, and took another brave yet tiny bite. It progressed gradually for some time, and Dean was starting to believe they would actually make it.

And then John raised his eyes from his near-empty plate and looked directly at Adam.

"Why aren't you eating?" He barked.

Adam startled, his mouth gaped and the little bit of food he had there dropped back to the plate.

"He's eating, Dad," Dean said casually. "Aren't you, Adam?"

Adam stared at him, caught the pleading in his big brother's eyes, and quickly brought another bite of casserole to his mouth. He chewed, but his whole little face grimaced and as he tried to swallow he nearly chocked.

Sam moved to his side and patted his back, offered him a drink of water and coaxed another bite into him. Adam was starting to calm down when John's voice roared again, "stop that, Sam. Get back to your sit and let the boy finish his dinner."

Sam obeyed with a desperate look on his face. Adam was near tears. Under John's gaze he tried to take another bite, but then his face twisted and he got up suddenly and ran to the bathroom. A vomiting sound came a minute later. Sam looked anxiously at Dean, who gave a short nod. Sam sprinted into the bathroom after his little brother.

"What the fuck is going on?!" John was on his feet now. His chair rocked back and fell. Dean got up and moved to block his father's way.

"Everything's fine, Dad," he said as soothingly as he managed. "Adam's not feeling so well and he didn't have much appetite. I'll get him to eat some more later."

"Dinner's _now_ , not later."

"Yeah, but he just-"

And then John turned his head as he caught sight of something. He reached the kitchen trash can in two long strides and as he lifted the empty cookie wrapper, Dean knew he was screwed.

John looked at the wrapper and then let it fall back into the trash can. Without a word he turned, covered the distance between him and his eldest son, and backhanded Dean across the face.

Dean's head was thrown aside, and he stumbled a step back. Just as he regained his balance, John slapped him again.

"Not feeling well, eh? Maybe because you stuffed him full of cookies?!" Another backhand, and Dean tasted blood. "I work my ass off to put food on your table and what do you do with my hard-earned money? Buy fucking _cookies_?!" A fist to the abdomen folded Dean over and he gasped for air. "You worthless, selfish son of a bitch, you and those two little pieces of shit!" Two more fists. He nearly fell over, but John grabbed him by the front of his shirt, slammed his back against the wall, and punched his midsection again.

At least he didn't have to worry about his little brothers. Sam knew the drill: take Adam and lock themselves up in a bedroom, a bathroom or a closet until they were given an all-clear. Dean willingly let his father beat the shit out of him every time, as long as it distracted him off Sam and Adam. He couldn't do anything about the sounds, though, but Sammy was smart; he was no doubt covering Adam's ears.

His knees gave way and he fell to the floor, only to have the toe of his father's boot plant into his ribs. A whimper escaped his lips.

It must have been his lucky night. With a growled "wasting my fucking breath on your miserable ass" John kicked him once more and then turned, marched to the door, took his coat off the rack and just like that got out and slammed the door behind him.

The silence that settled felt like a heavy blanket. Dean laid curled where he was, his breath ragged, trying to figure out if Dad was coming back for another round. When a few more minutes passed he decided it was safe to get up. Easier said than done, but he managed to bring himself to his knees and rested there, head down, arms wrapped around his midsection.

"Dean," Sam's hands on either side of his face gently lifted his head up. Dean looked at his brother, noting the traces of tears.

"Adam?" He croaked out.

"In our room. He's fine," it was a big fat lie, but Dean let it pass and allowed Sam to help him to his feet and into the bathroom. He braced both hands on the sides of the sink, too afraid to look in the mirror. But he couldn't put it off, could he?

There was no shiner, thank God. The backhands on his face left reddish marks that probably wouldn't bruise up. The blood he tasted didn't come from a split lip, so here's another thing to be grateful for.

The sight of his naked torso was less satisfactory. He felt for broken ribs and could find none, but he would be black and blue for days. Nothing new there, and it was a part of his body he was able to keep covered. With no damage to his face, at least this time, he wasn't in for any questioning from nosey pre-school teachers. He let his shirt drop over the bruised skin and turned on the faucet to wash his face. When he finished there was a towel hovering next to him, held out by the silently worried Sam.

Dean wiped his face and then pulled Sam into a hug. The boy wrapped his arms around him, mindful of his tender midsection and put his face into Dean's chest.

"Dean, please," his voice was muffled. "You can't just keep taking it. Please."

Dean closed his eyes and tightened his arms around his brother. "One year. I promise, Sammy. Just one year." He held on to the boy for a few seconds longer and then gently pried Sam off him. "C'mon, let's see how Adam's doing."

Adam was a miserable little heap on the bed in their shared room. Dean set down next to him and stroked his head. Adam lifted a teary face, realized it was his big brother beside him, and immediately crawled onto his lap and hid his face in the crook of Dean's neck. Dean cradled him and Sam joined them, burrowing into Dean's side and putting out an arm to hug Adam as well.

They sat like that for a while, neither of them talking, only taking comfort in each other's warmth. Dean wished he could just stay like that forever with the two most precious things he had in the whole world, but it was just not possible. He sighed heavily.

"Okay, guys, you're all calmed down? Huh?" He moved Adam a bit to see his face, and then looked over at Sam. "I need to go do the laundry, so put Adam to bed on time."

"Don't leave us alone, he might come back," Sam's eyes were big and full of fear.

"He just went out. He'll be a few hours, and when he does come back he'll be completely wasted. Anyway, I'll be back before he does."

"Do the laundry another day."

"I can't. There's a ton and I have work tomorrow. If I don't do it today you won't have any clean clothes to wear. Please, Sam, don't make it difficult."

"Then take us with you."

Dean sighed again. He didn't like the idea of dragging the two kids over to the laundromat on a freezing night and past their bedtime, but given their current state they would never let him leave them. And maybe he shouldn't. "Fine. Grab some coloring books or something to keep you busy and let's roll."

He hauled the duffle bag stuffed with dirty clothes and his homework over to the door, where Sam was wrapping Adam up in a coat and mittens. Dean left a note for their father just in case – he really didn't think the old man was going to get home anywhere this side of midnight. He then hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, wincing as his sore ribs protested, and locked the door behind them.

When they reached the laundromat, Dean settled the boys at a table on the far end of the room and started loading up the washer. As he dug in his pocket for change his fingers brushed a piece of paper and he took it out to look at it. It was the old receipt Mr. Novak gave him with his number written on the back. Dean crumpled it and threw it into the nearby trash bin, finished setting the washer and turned to join his brothers.

He took a few steps, halted and turned back. He fished the note out of the trash bin, smoothed it out, folded it neatly and returned it to his pocket.

Dean sat down at the table near Sam and Adam and watched their little faces for a minute, making sure they no longer looked upset. Then he took out his schoolbooks and went to work.


	3. Task In The City

If there was one thing Bobby Singer hated, it was doing the shopping.

To be exact, he didn't hate shopping when he was doing it with Karen. He actually loved it – well, not the shopping part, but he loved being with her, even if it was for shopping.

But now he was here in the big grocery store on Main Street, _sans_ Karen, and he hated it. He was struggling with the list she made, calling her from his cell phone about every other item because he wasn't sure if he found the one she wanted – and honestly, why should there even _be_ so many types of floor detergents? – until she gently told him that she trusted he'd get everything right, and even if he didn't, it was fine, really, she could exchange it later, and would he let her get back to her baking, _please_?

He glared at the rows of jam jars in front of him, looked at the list, and glared at the jars some more. "Balls," he growled at last, grabbed a random jar and placed it in his overflowing cart. About time he wrapped this up and head home for a well-deserved beer. He started pushing the cart out of the aisle but had to brake it with a huff as a tiny boy ran across his path and into the nearby aisle.

"Adam! Stop!" Another boy darted after the runt. "Don't you run off like that!"

Bobby eased his way forward, making sure no other midgets were going to crush into his cart, and as he glanced over to where the boys ran to he saw both of them halfway down the aisle. For no reason at all he edged toward them and halted behind a display of fruit cakes. From there he could see and hear them fine, but they didn't notice him.

"I just wanted to show you those cookies, Sammy," the little one – Adam – was telling the bigger one. "Can we ask De to get them?"

The bigger boy, Sammy, bit his lip. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"They gave us those cookies at school and I liked them a lot."

"I bet, but I don't think we can get them."

"Why not?" Adam's face was grimacing a bit, but he wasn't actually whining. Bobby had the idea that the kid was used to not getting a lot of the things he wanted, judging from the boys' Goodwill coats and worn boots.

Sammy bit his lip again. "I don't think Dean has enough money for it. Besides, after what happened last week-" he cut himself off, but Bobby could see Adam's eyes grow large and his expression changed in a way Bobby didn't care for one bit.

"There you are," a tall, older boy came from the other side of the aisle, pushing a shopping cart. "What's you got there?" Adam was still holding the bag of cookies, and the older boy – Dean? – bent over to look at it.

"He wanted to get the cookies, I told him we can't," Sammy explained. Dean held Adam's arm and crouched to the child's eye-level.

"I'm sorry, Adam, Sam's right. We only have money for what's on the list today. But I'll get paid this week, and I'll get it for you as soon as I can." Adam mumbled something Bobby couldn't make out, and apparently neither could Dean. "What was that, kiddo?"

"I don't want cookies."

"You don't? Why not?"

Adam was staring at the floor. "I don't want Daddy to hurt you again."

Bobby's ears pricked up. The hell was that?!

Dean glanced over at Sam, and then put a hand under Adam's chin and gently lifted his face up. "Listen to me. It wasn't your fault, you hear? Daddy wasn't mad because you ate those cookies. He was tired and upset and had too much of the bad stuff to drink, and he got mad just because. And he didn't hurt me, I'm fine."

"Like hell," Sam mumbled. Dean shot him a sharp glance.

"I'll get you the cookies when I can, okay, Adam?" The little boy nodded. Dean nodded back and got up, taking the bag of cookies out of Adam's hand. "Why don't you guys run ahead and wait for me at the registers."

"C'mon, Adam," Sam took hold of Adam and lead him away.

Bobby remained behind the cake display and watched Dean. The boy's gaze was on the younger kids as they walked down the aisle, and then he looked at the bag of cookies he was still holding. Then Bobby saw his eyes darting every which way with his other hand reaching up to his coat.

Bobby's legs started moving even before he realized that a decision had formed in his mind. He'd be damned if he'd let the boy get in trouble for stealing a lousy bag of cookies because he couldn't afford getting them for his baby brother.

"Hey, kid," he said. Dean startled, almost dropping the bag. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya."

"It's okay," Dean watched him carefully.

"I happened to hear the little one when he ran past me before, sounded like he wanted some cookies."

"Yeah, well-"

"And I've been thinking, those are on a sale of buy-two-get-one-free, it comes down to a good price, and I been meaning to get them. But you see, me 'n the misses, we don't need that much. One bag is enough for us. But it's a really good sale. How about I get those cookies, and give you the other two bags I don't need?"

Dean's lips pressed together, and he pulled his shoulders back. "I don't need charity, sir."

"Who said anything about charity, ya idijt? I need to get a twenty-pound sack of fertilizer for the garden and I can't sit on my ass to wait for those lazy employees until they finally get to helping me. Does hauling it around worth a bag of cookies in your book?"

"Look, if you need a hand with that I'll be happy to help you, you don't have to-"

"I don't need charity either, boy," Bobby growled. "Tell you what, help me load all the stuff onto my truck and you'll earn the second bag of cookies."

Dean smiled. "Fair enough."

Bobby put out his hand. "Bobby Singer."

"Dean Winchester."

Bobby led the kid over to the gardening section where he pointed out a sack of fertilizer he didn't need – Karen had more than enough fertilizer for her small garden of flowers and vegetables, which she didn't even need now, in the midst of winter. Nevermind, he could store it or they could return it later, and Karen would no doubt be happy for the reason he got it in the first place.

Dean put the sack in his own cart, which had too much free space in it. Bobby sneaked a peek at it as they made their way to the registers – just basic groceries, all of them the cheapest brands. He thought about Adam's face, about Sammy biting his lip, about Dean saying _he had too much of the bad stuff to drink, and he got mad just because_ , and realized he was determined to find some way to help those boys out.

Because he knew.

He fucking _knew_.

The younger boys were waiting for them by the registers, and helped Dean and Bobby load their items onto the belt and then put the bagged groceries back into the carts so they could roll them out to the parking lot.

Bobby let Dean earn the cookies by allowing him to load his purchases onto the back of his truck by himself, including the unnecessary sack of fertilizer, and when the boy was done, Bobby held out the two bags of cookies to the younger kids. Sam and Adam looked at the offered bags, and then at Dean.

"It's okay, you can take it," Dean said, and smiles lit up their faces, making Bobby glad he had a beard to hide his own smile.

"Now, how about I give you boys a ride home?" He said.

"We're fine, we can walk."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Is that right? Because ya know, the wind's building up and I can smell snow in it. I wouldn't want to think about the little ones caught outside in this weather, not with those coats. Or is your pride enough to keep them warm?"

Bobby already figured out that the boys were a weak spot for Dean, and he had no problem applying his considerable weight to it and squeezing. He watched with satisfaction as Dean eyed his brothers and then looked back at him.

"I can't ask that of you."

"You weren't asking. Now load up your bags and hop in."

A few minutes later Bobby was navigating his way out of the parking lot with Sam between him and Dean in the cabin and Adam on Dean's lap.

"So where to?"

"Orchard Street. You know it?"

"I know it," he wished to God he hadn't. Crappy neighborhood, to say the least. "You live there long?"

"We moved to Sioux Falls just before summer vacation last year."

"Where from?"

"Last place was Blue Earth, Minnesota," which meant there were other places. Bobby bet the family moved whenever the father-that-didn't-hurt-me lost his job because he-had-too-much-of-the-bad-stuff-to-drink.

"Any other rugrats at home?"

"No, only these two," Dean gave Adam a fond little squeeze.

"So you take care of them while your parents work?"

"It's just our dad and us. I look after them, yeah," no mother, either. The Winchester boys were getting very few long straws, for sure.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Seventeen."

"I'm five _and a half,_ " Adam declared.

"Practically a man, aren't you, now?"

"And Sammy is twelve," the runt chirped on.

"I'm almost thirteen," Sam muttered, sending an irritated glance over at his little brother. Yeah, he was getting that teenage attitude down already.

"That's how old Daniel Boone was when he got his first rifle," Bobby said. Sam looked up at him from between his long bangs.

"Really?"

"Ya betcha. I think I have a book about him somewhere around the house if you're interested," it earned him a smile from Sam and an uninterpretable look from Dean just as he pulled into Orchard Street.

"That's us, the house next to the boarded up one," Bobby parked at the curb, got out and strolled to the back of the truck where Dean was unloading their groceries. He gave Sam and Adam each a bag to carry inside, lifted the rest and turned to Bobby.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Singer."

"Bobby."

"Bobby. I don't know why you're doing this, but I really appreciate it."

"Are ya looking for a job, kid?" Bobby had a vague plan formulating in his head during the drive, but he needed to get Dean on board. For now the boy just looked confused.

"I have a job, cleaning at my school."

Bobby snorted. "I know this type of gig. They give you what, nine hours a week, and less than minimum wage, right? Just enough money for lunch."

Dean was taken aback a little. "Yeah, well, there ain't many jobs where I can bring my brothers along to watch them and also be home in time to make dinner."

"I'll tell you what. You come work at my salvage yard for three hours after school, and I'm talking every day, not just a couple of times a week. Saturdays too, if you're up to it. I'll pay you five bucks an hour for starters, and a month from now we can talk a raise, after I see what you're worth. The yard is by my house, and my wife, she just adores kids. She would've made a wonderful mother if we ever had any. I can tell she'd love those little ones of yours. You bring them with you, and they can do their homework there, it'd sure as hell beat inhaling that Lysol they use for cleaning at your school. Sam can give Karen a little hand around the house and you can all help us get rid of those damned pies she keeps baking."

Dean was practically gawking at him, and Bobby knew he had the kid hook, line and sinker. But he added, "I'll give you some extra for bus fare to get to the yard, and I can drop you off at the end of the day, because Karen'll have my hide if she doesn't know you boys get home safe. So what'd you say?"

"I… I don't… it's… are you sure?"

"You think I'm standing here freezing my ass off and running my mouth for the heck of it, ya idijt?"

"No, sir," a little smile curled the corner of Dean's mouth. "It just sounds too good to be true."

"Well, it's true. You gonna take me up on my offer?"

Dean's smile widened. "Hell yeah. But I have to ask my dad first."

"You do that," Bobby was certain Mr. Winchester would have no objections at all. In fact, he doubted Mr. Winchester even cared what either of his sons was doing, as long as dinner was on the table when he got home. "Here's my business card. Singer Salvage Yard. You call and let me know."

"I will. I… thank you. So much, Mr. Singer."

"It's Bobby."

"Bobby."

As he was pulling away, Bobby looked at the rare-view mirror to see Dean still standing on the curb with his eyes following the truck. He smiled to himself, and then huffed the smile off and rounded the corner.

As he expected, Karen was nearly in tears when he finished telling her about the unpredictable turn his innocent shopping trip had taken.

"Oh, Bobby," she was wringing her handkerchief half to death. "What will we do if Dean doesn't call? We have to do something for them."

"He'll call."

"But what if his father doesn't let him?"

"I don't think he cares whether the boy works at the school or elsewhere. Not if he makes some money and takes care of the kids."

"But what if-"

"Karen," Bobby took both of her hands in his and looked into her eyes. "I'm sure it's gonna work out just fine. But if it doesn't, we'll figure something else, okay? I promise you I ain't gonna just leave it alone. I ain't."

Karen searched his face for a minute and then leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips. "You know I love you, don't you?"

Bobby moved to kiss her back. "I know. But say that again."


	4. Chase The Ride

Dean did call, just as Bobby knew he would, and the following Monday afternoon the Winchester boys knocked on the Singers' front door. Karen greeted them with her warmest smile, and Adam was quickly persuaded into letting go of Dean's pant leg to follow her into the brightly-lit kitchen. She turned her head to look at Bobby, and the way her face glowed as Adam held her outstreched hand made Bobby's heart feel two sized too big for his ribcage.

Sam walked a little way behind, throwing Dean a glance, and his older brother nodded at him and smiled encouragingly. Sam smiled back.

"I hope they're hungry," Bobby said, walking over to Dean. "Because Karen baked some things especially for them. Actually, she baked a lot of things for them. She was worried because she didn't know what you boys liked."

"She shouldn't have bothered. Really," Dean replied. "We eat whatever there is, you know." His tone was light, but a tiny knot formed in Bobby's throat. He coughed it off and led the boy outside to the salvage yard.

Bobby spent an hour showing Dean around the vast yard with the towers of dead cars, piles of car-parts and various work sheds. Then he took him to the Dodge he was currently dissembling and had him stand by his side and hand him tools as he disemboweled every usable bit of engine-parts, explaining as he went. But he got the feeling that Dean didn't need as many explanations.

"You know a bit about cars?"

"A bit. My dad has a '67 Impala, and he handles it by himself. He used to let me help him sometimes, so I picked up a little knowhow."

A father and son working on the family car together sounded just so… normal. But the past tense didn't go unnoticed. "That's a good thing, and you'll pick up some more here. Every man should know what's under his car's hood. Where does your daddy work at?"

"Folson's Garage. And then an afternoon shift at the bolt factory," Bobby knew all the local garages. He made a mental note to try and get some details from Vic Folson about Mr. Winchester.

They worked on the Dodge for another hour until Bobby announced they need to go check if the boys left them any pie.

Said boys were sitting on the couch in the cozy living room, Sam with a book in his lap and Karen reading patiently with Adam from another book while the child traced the words on the page with his little finger. They looked up as Bobby and Dean entered, and Bobby glanced over at Dean in time to catch his expression soften and relax as he saw his brothers fed, warm and content.

Turned out there was pie left – Bobby thought they might have enough pies left to last them well into retirement – and Karen set Dean down to have some. Bobby watched him over a cup of fresh coffee, noting how the boy was using every ounce of self-control to make himself eat politely when he obviously was hungry enough to devour the entire thing in two bites. He wondered if Dean had any lunch today, and mentally kicked himself for not making the kid eat with his brothers when they first arrived.

Karen loaded the boys' backpacks with meat pies for dinner and Bobby drove them home – Dean tried to say they were fine taking the bus, but Bobby growled at him to shut the hell up and move his ass to the truck – and when he got back Karen was waiting for him bright-eyed and practically radiating, looking ten years younger and as beautiful as an angel. She had her arms around him before he was even fully inside the door.

"Bobby, those children are _precious_. Sam is so smart and sweet, and Adam is just _adorable_. Dean is going to be a real heartbreaker in a year or two, and the way he cares about the little ones… tell me we can help them, I can't bear the thought that somebody is hurting them."

"We've already started helping. I told you I ain't gonna leave it alone."

"We need to talk to Sheriff Mills."

Bobby frowned. "We can't. Not right now. You know as well as I do that what we have is a hunch, not facts."

"You said you heard Adam say to Dean he doesn't want his dad to hurt him again."

"Which is saying what, exactly? What we think we can make of it is not evidence for court. Besides, coming from me it's a hearsay, and you know the boys won't talk to the authorities. If they did, they wouldn't still be where they are. We need to gain their trust so we can get Dean to cooperate. If we move in too soon he'll just freak out and we won't see either of them again."

"You have a point, but Jody's not stupid. We'll explain the situation to her, and I'm sure she can think of something."

Bobby sighed. "We'll talk to her. But not right now, okay? Let's wait a few weeks, see how we can get the boys to open up to us, maybe spill up some more info. I'll also talk to Vic Folson, the boys' daddy works in his garage. He might have something we can use."

Karen smiled up at him. "You're a wise man, Bobby Singer. And kind-hearted."

"Not as much as you," he softly kissed her forehead. "Any pie left?"


	5. Bergamot And Vetiver

Over the following days, Bobby and Karen devoted their efforts to making the Winchester boys feel comfortable with them. Adam seemed to take to Karen with satisfying speed; even with two older brothers who undoubtedly cared very much about him, his lack of a fond motherly figure was obvious, and Karen was thrilled to be filling this role for him. Sam was fascinated with the Singers' rich home library, and Bobby lent him a couple of books to read at home, and readily discussed them with him when the boy finished them in an incredibly short time. Sam was more than willing to do house chores for Karen, or participate when she played with Adam, their laughter ringing in the previously silent household.

Dean was a harder nut to crack. He was pleasant and polite, engaged in small-talk with Karen when she initiated it, and flashed charming smiles often enough. But The vibe of caution Bobby picked off him was strong; the kid was practically jumping in to obey every single order Bobby gave, worked relentlessly until commanded to stop, and "sir"ed Bobby to the point the man felt like he was a fucking drill sergeant.

Bobby understood where this was coming from. The arrangement the boys now had was, as Dean put it before, too good to be true, and the kid was scared to death of losing it. Instead of opening up he was becoming more tensed, trying to give the Singers no cause to break the deal.

Bobby was certain he'd find a way to reach Dean with time. The problem was he wasn't sure how much time he had. Having the boys at his house every day and knowing they had food and a safe place for a few hours was fine, but at the end of each day they still returned to a shabby house in a crappy neighbourhood and a father who might be beating them. He couldn't help them further if they didn't give him something to work with. Sam and Adam wouldn't cooperate if Dean didn't, and Dean was currently running on full survival mode. Maybe it was time for a bit of shock therapy.

The following afternoon he waited until Dean had finished loading an '87 Plymouth front door onto a costumer's pick-up and called him over.

"I wanna talk to you about your work here. You're a hard worker and you learned the ropes pretty fast. But I'm in a bit of a dilemma if I should keep you around," Bobby saw panic rising in Dean's face. Good. "It's your attitude."

"My… I don't understand, sir."

Bobby crooked a finger at him. "That's what I'm talking about. How many times have I told you to drop the "sir", huh?"

Dean blinked. "A few times."

"Try twenty at the very least. And I told you you don't need permission to go to the bathroom, and you keep askin'. Now, you could be a complete knucklehead who can't follow simple instructions, but I think you ain't. Idijt, for sure, but not stupid. Only other option is that you're giving me attitude."

Dean was staring at him wide-eyed. "I'm not trying to give you attitude. I'm sorry if it came out that way. It's just…" his panic seemed to grow as he struggled to find words, and Bobby figured he had the boy scared enough. Damn it, he was nearly hyperventilating. Bobby let his voice soften.

"It's okay, calm down. You do what you think is best to keep me happy so I'll let you and your brothers stay here. Did I get that right?" Dean nodded. "But you see, it doesn't make me happy when you don't tell me you need a break, or that you're thirsty or hungry. It doesn't make me happy when you don't tell me you're too cold to be working outside. It doesn't make me happy to see you squirming for half an hour before working up the nerve to ask me if you can go take a fuckin' leak. It doesn't make Karen happy when you keep calling her Mrs. Singer and not Karen, and it sure as hell doesn't make her happy when you don't ask for another slice of pie when she can tell you want it. You get what I'm sayin', boy?"

Dean nodded, slowly, not taking his eyes off Bobby's.

"We like you, Karen and me. And we like Sam and Adam. We want you to be here. We want you to feel at home here, and not be on edge thinking we might kick you out if you speak one word out of place. Because normal people don't do that. _Friends_ don't do that. You understand?"

"Yeah," Dean's voice wasn't entirely steady. "I understand. I might be an idijt, but I'm not stupid."

Bobby hid his little smile under his beard. Well, what do you know, the kid had sass in him after all. Give him some time and proper nurturing and he'd blossom into a full-grown smartass. He clapped Dean on the shoulder.

"Right, so we're on the same page here? Good. Let's go inside."

As they came into the house, Karen walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "You're done for the day?"

"Yeah, think we are," Bobby said. Dean glanced over into the living room where Sam and Adam were watching TV.

"Their homework is all done," Karen said. "Which reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask you. Do you have any books or worksheets for Adam? He's already ahead on his class assignments and I think he needs more advanced material to keep him chalanged. It'd be a shame not to help him achieve his full potential."

"We don't have any back home. Maybe the school…" Dean suddenly looked as if he remembered something and reached for the wallet in his back pocket. "His teacher gave me his number a while ago, said I can contact him if I needed help with Adam. There it is."

"Do you mind if I talk to him?"

"Would you? That'd be great, Mrs.- I mean, Karen," Bobby caught the surprised yet satisfied glance Karen threw him and nodded at her. Yep, not stupid at all.

As soon as Bobby went out to drive the boys home, Karen called the number Dean gave her.

"Mr. Novak?"

"Yes," he had a calm, pleasant voice, fitting for a pre-school teacher.

"Good evening, my name is Karen Singer. I'm calling about a student of yours, Adam Winchester."

The teacher's voice became alert. "Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's fine," Karen explained shortly about the arrangement they had with Adam and his brothers, and could hear very obvious relief in Mr. Novak's voice when he said, "this is quite amazing, Mrs. Singer. Do you realize how much good you're doing these children?"

"They deserve it," she replied, holding the receiver in both hands and trying to keep her voice steady. She quickly relayed her observation about Adam's schoolwork.

"Of course I can arrange study materials for Adam. It's no problem at all. I'll see to it tomorrow and send it with him at the end of the day."

"That would be terrific, Mr. Novak."

"Castiel, please, Mrs. Singer."

"Castiel. And I'm Karen. I'd love to help Adam advance, he's a bright little boy."

"So he is," Castiel's voice sounded a bit off now, as if he was trying to decide how to phrase what he wanted to say next. "Karen, did you happen to notice… did Adam or his brothers ever mentioned something that seemed wrong…"

Karen gripped the receiver even tighter. "You mean about their father?"

There was a moment of silence, and then, "yes."

Karen let out a shaky breath. "My husband overheard Adam say something. It was at the grocery store, where he first met them. That's why he approached them in the first place."

"I've heard Adam say something, too. But it's very ambiguous and I have really nothing to go on. I did try to talk to Dean about it, but he denies there might be anything out of order at their home."

"Yeah, it figures. But my Bobby has a sharp eye, and some… personal experience. We are doing our best to make the boys trust us enough to eventually come out with the truth."

"I would very much like to help, too."

"I'm so glad to hear it, Castiel," and she was, so very glad and relieved. "Why don't I give you my number and we'll keep each other updated."

As she terminated the call, Karen's heart was both heavy with the realiztion that Bobby didn't mishear Adam that day at the store, but also light with the knowledge that they had another ally in the fight for the Winchester boys.


	6. Fall Into The Ocean

It was a week later when Karen came out to the yard at noon to find Bobby.

"Castiel just called from the school. He said Adam is very upset today."

"He knows why? Is he sick?"

"He doesn't seem to be sick, but he wouldn't say what's wrong. And Castiel has to leave early, so he can't meet Dean and Sam when they come to pick Adam up."

"We'll try to make him talk when they get here."

But they didn't have to bother with the talking. The reason for Adam's mood was very clear as soon as the boys walked through the door. Karen tried not the shudder at the large, ugly bruise that darkened the left side of Dean's face.

"God, what happened?" She said, reaching to gently touch his cheek.

Dean shied away. "It's nothing, didn't duck the basketball in time. I put some ice on it, it's going to be okay. Really."

Bobby and Karen exchanged glances. This was most certainly not okay. Adam and Sam were visually upset, and Dean wasn't moving his body with his usual smooth agility. And when did he ever have time for basketball between school, housework, a job and raising two kids?

Karen settled Sam and Adam with her in the kitchen to bake cinnamon cookies – Adam was a bit reluctant to let go of his eldest brother, for the first time in weeks – and Bobby led Dean to his tiny office in the salvage yard.

"I want you to go over these invoices, match them up to the list of checks," he said. Dean eyed him with some surprise.

"I'm not finished with that inventory I was doing the last couple of days."

"Well, now I want you to do the invoices."

"But-"

"Damn it, boy, did I die and make you boss of this place?!"

Dean closed his mouth. "No, s- Bobby."

"Than sit your ass down and do whatever the hell I tell you to."

Dean looked at him for a moment longer before shrugging slightly and reaching for the folders Bobby put on the desk. Bobby returned to the house as Karen was walking out the door to meet him.

"I'm calling Sheriff Jody," she said. "And I'm calling Castiel. I want both of them to meet with us here tonight after you drop the boys off. We need to step this up."

"Karen-"

"Don't you Karen me. Look at his _face_ , for crying out loud!"

"I'm just sayin'-"

"Well now _I'm_ saying."

Bobby sighed. "Yes, ma'am." Karen pecked his lips and went back inside.

A steady drizzle of customers kept Bobby occupied at the yard. He could have really used Dean's help, but the boy shouldn't be hauling car-parts in his condition; the most Bobby was willing to let him lift was unnecessary, unimportant papers. As the daylight slowly started to fade, Bobby returned to the little office.

Dean raised his head from the stacks of papers to look at the bottle of beer Bobby held out to him. "You do know I'm underaged, right?"

"You see any cops around?"

Dean looked at him, at the bottle, back at Bobby, and then took the beer and knocked it back in a manner way too practiced for an underaged kid. Bobby took a swig from his own bottle and settled down on the other side of the desk.

"So how did you get that bruise?"

"Already told you. Basketball hit me in the face," Dean's voice didn't even falter. Bobby nodded, sipped his beer and tilted the bottle towards Dean.

"That's another important skill," he said conversationally. "Apart from knowing what's under his car's hood, a man needs to know his liquor capacity. Some people become happy drunks, singing and dancing and making lame jokes. Others, like me, get sluggish and wobble around slurring at the walls until they end up snoring in the closet. Some just fall asleep. And there are those that become mean drunks." Dean took another little sip, his eyes not leaving Bobby's face. "My daddy, he was a mean drunk. I can't say he wasn't mean when he wasn't drunk, 'cause he was plenty mean, but it was worse when he drank, and it didn't take a lot of booze to rile him up. Now, when I was a kid, folks didn't think much of beating children, it was just part of raising 'em. But we're talking slapping and spanking, you know? Wasn't that way with my old man. It was punching and kicking and throwing me against furniture and throwing things at me. He went after my mom, too, which for me was even worse." He had to pause to rub a hand over his face before he went on. "She never told nobody, I never told nobody. He just kept doing it till the day he died. I was around Sam's age then. Can't say I missed him since."

Dean sat quietly, watching Bobby, the bottle in his hand still one-third full. Bobby put his beer on the table and looked intently at the boy.

"How did you get that bruise, Dean?" He asked, very softly.

Dean dropped his eyes. A long moment passed, and Bobby was practically holding his breath, praying silently without even knowing to whom. At last Dean raised his gaze, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Basketball hit me in the face," he said, and Bobby felt a burning fang stab him straight through his chest, leaving a hollow cave filled with liquid pain that was pushing its way up to his tear ducts. It took all he had not to let it spill out of his eyes. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drained it in one long pull.

"Yeah," he said and got to his feet. "Why don't you wrap up in here and I'll take you home."

When Bobby returned from his gloomy drive to Orchard Street, the sheriff's car was pulling into the yard, and they both parked behind a mud-colored Taurus, which Bobby assumed belonged to Adam's teacher. He shook hands with the vigorous Jody Mills, and they walked in together to find Karen already pouring coffee for a slender, dark-haired man with a slightly crooked tie, whom Karen presented as Castiel Novak.

Introductions aside and seated around the kitchen table with a plate of cinnamon cookies between them, Karen turned to Sheriff Mills, "Jody, I know being a cop means you're a cop twenty-four-seven. But we asked you here on a very delicate matter, and I have to have your word that you won't send the troops storming in just yet."

Jody arched an eyebrow. "This is how you know me, Karen? As a person without any common sense?"

"Of course not, it's just-"

"You're lucky I love your baking. I'll take a cookie as compensation for the insult, and you can use the time my mouth is busy chewing to rattle out your delicate matter."

They rattled it out in turns – Castiel started with his acquaintance with Adam Winchester and brief encounter with Dean and Sam, Bobby next on meeting the boys at the grocery store, and Karen picked up on the boys' time with the Singers over the weeks since then. Bobby closed with today's events.

Jody listened to the account, nibbling on a cookie and washing it down with black coffee. When Bobby finished talking, she set her cup back on the saucer. "So, you believe those boys are being abused by their father."

"Not Adam," said Castiel. "I've been watching him very carefully, and I didn't see any signs that he was suffering from abuse. Not physical, in any case."

"I think it's just Dean," Karen said. "I've been spending a lot of time with Sam. I'm not an expert on this, but I don't think his dad beats him. I could be wrong-"

"I don't think you're wrong," Bobby said. "Dean's very protective over the kids, I believe he would've gone for help the minute his daddy was to touch any of them. It's very likely he lets the old man have at him instead of his brothers."

"So, he thinks that as long as it's just him it makes it alright?" Karen asked.

"That's not it. I reckon he thinks that as long as it's just him, he can stand it until he's eighteen. That's next January."

Castiel nodded. "When he's out of the CPS reach, and can become legal guardian for his brothers and keep them together."

Karen turned to Jody. "Would CPS do that? Separate brothers?"

"If that is what this kid's afraid of, then I wish I could say that his fears are without ground, but I can't. There is a chance, I might even say a good one considering their ages, that if CPS get a warrant to remove the boys from their home, they won't end up together." Jody passed her eyes on the three faces around the table. "If I understand the situation correctly, you're worried that Dean won't cooperate with any attempt to help him if he'll think his brothers are gonna get separated from him. That about right?"

"He'll most likely shut us out completely, and then the boys won't even have the little help we're giving 'em now," Bobby added.

"Right. I see your point, and I'm on board with you. I'll keep the authorities out of this until we can be sure we've figured this out," Jody raised two eyebrows this time at the sound of the collective sigh of relief. "Come on, what do you take me for, some red-tape-fanatic, heartless bitch? Grab me a beer, won't you, Singer? Now, what do we know about the father?"

"John Winchester," Bobby set a bottle in front of Jody. "Not much. Originally from Kensas. Ex-marine. Wife, Dean and Sam's mother, died in a house fire. He's been moving around ever since, my guess he can't hold a job."

"Because of his drinking?"

"Probably. I wouldn't be surprised if CPS been on his ass at some point and he bailed."

"I wouldn't rule out post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in service and maybe the death of his wife," Castiel suggested.

"I don’t give a crap about his disorders if he does that to his kids," Bobby growled.

"I did not mean it was an excuse for it, but it could be an explanation."

"Whatever. He works two jobs, one of them at Folson's Garage, so I swung by to have a peek at him. I can tell you he's a scary guy, rough-looking, six-two at least and a bulk to match. From the looks of him, he could toss Dean around like a twig without even breaking a sweat, and the kid is already pushing six feet." He saw Karen grimace and knew she was thinking about Dean's bruised face and the careful way he was carrying himself. He reached out to lay his hand on hers.

"He must fit right in with the rest of Folson's guys," Jody said. "Half of them are ex-cons, the other half on their way to become future ex-cons."

"Vic said John's got in near-fights with 'em a couple of times. Could be that he was just establishing his place on the food-chain, or it could be that he's an all-around asshole. And Vic also confirmed he's a heavy drinker, showed up hungover more than once. But as long as he gets the work done Vic doesn't give a rat's ass."

"He owns a car?"

"Yeah."

"What kind?"

"A black '67 Chevy Impala. You're gonna try picking him up for DUI?"

"Wouldn't hurt if we did. Listen," Jody took a sip of beer and set the bottle down. "I'm thinking of having the deputies watch out for that car, check his registrations every now and again, maybe have a cruiser patrol more often by their house. Make him watch himself, you know? Keep a low profile, make him think twice before doing somethin' dumb. Castiel," she turned to the teacher. "Are you able to talk discreetly to the teachers and counselors of Dean and Sam's schools?"

"Yes," Castiel replied. "Those schools are affiliated with mine. Most of my students continue their aducational course there. I know most of the teachers, and I work closely with the counselors."

"Excellent. We'll start building a case for the boys."

"A case?"

"Yeah. Gather staff impressions about them, psychological profiles, personal evaluations, the likes. The most important thing is to emphasize their dependency on one another and the emotional damage they'll suffer should they separate."

Castiel nodded with a hint of smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "I understand. I think I can arrange that."

"What do Bobby and I do?" Karen asked.

"You keep doing what you've done so far," Jody replied.

Karren frowned. "That's hardly been making any real progress in finding a solution."

"You're wrong, Karen," Jody's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You gave those boys a safe haven. You showed them that there are people who care about them. Is that so trivial to you?"

Karen looked down at her empty coffee cup. "They still don't trust us enough to tell us the truth."

"They've only met us less than two months ago," Bobby said. "For all they know, if they do, we'll call the police or CPS on them. They're scared, Karen. But I almost reached Dean today, I almost…" he shook his head and then looked at Karen again. "We need to be there for them. We need to let them know we're the ones they can eventually run to."

"That can take time. In the meantime this… monster, he'll keep beating Dean."

"And he might not. It's a risk we have to take. Losing a battle or two to win the war, right?"

Karen grimaced. "I don't like it, Bobby."

Bobby sighed. "Me, neither. But he's a tough kid. He made it so far, we need to trust him to hold on a little while longer."

Karen attempted to smile and squeezed Bobby's hand. "I hope I can hold on myself."


	7. This Life That Pass Before My Eyes

After showing up at the Singers' with a bruised face, Dean dreaded a home visit from the police, the social services, or possibly both. But the days passed and nobody seemed to take interest in his little family. Dean knew Bobby and Karen had to be incredibly thick to believe his excuse for the bruise, which they by any means weren't, but without him or his brothers coming forward with the truth, the Singers could do very little. They could have still called someone, maybe already had, but the fact remained that no representative of the authorities showed up; it could either mean that the Singers didn't report his injury after all, or they did and nobody believed them or was willing to take any action.

Dean didn't care one way or the other. All he knew was that Bobby and Karen were as friendly and caring as before, and not another word was said about the fading bruise. And that was just fine with him, because if they had started meddling in his family's affair he wouldn't be able to keep coming to the salvage yard, and he didn't want that to happen; Sam and Adam were happy there, they were at last being fed properly and spent time at a warm, lovely house with Karen mother-henning them. The money he made working at the yard was way better than his cleaning job, and he came to like Bobby a lot, with his gruff exterior and constant cussing that couldn't quite mask a soft heart.

That his dad didn't have at him after that last, aweful beating was another blissful matter; John did shove him once against a wall, but it was almost casual, and compared to the other things the old man had done, it was not even worth mentioning.

But Dean was still careful around him. Very careful. He had too much experience than to let his guard down. His dad wasn't swinging at him, but he was crankier than usual, which put Dean on high alert. The boys were never comfortable alone in the house with John, and Dean only left them with him when he had no choice; but now he took extra care to stay with them whenever their father was home.

The cause for John's irritated mood was revealed two weeks later, after the bruise on Dean's face was long gone. He was in the kitchen washing the dishes from dinner when he heard John's cellphone ring. John was in the living room, drinking beer in front of the TV, but he muted it when he answered the call, and Dean could hear him loud and clear.

"Yeah. Hi, Chad. No, I'm home. No, not going out, already had a six-pack. 'Course I can drive, but the goddamned sheriff's department are having some kind of a special operation of traffic laws enforcement or something, I don't know. Pulled me over three times this week for reg checks and sobriety tests, twice last week and the week before that. That's more times than I've been pulled over in the last ten years. And with my fucked-up luck they'd be out there right now ready to take me in for DUI. What? So what if they didn't advertise anything, you follow up on those cunts' newsfeed? Probably wanting to get you by surprise. Yeah, fucking pigs. I'll see you tomorrow."

Dean heard the click as John flipped closed the phone, and then the groan of the couch as he got up. He focused his eyes on the pot he was scrubbing as John walked into the kitchen and headed for the fridge. From the sound of it Dean could tell his dad was making the most out of staying home by starting on his second six-pack. Without even acknowledging his eldest son in the slightest, John left the kitchen with his beer and turned the sound of the TV back on.

Dean started to dry the dishes with his mind racing. So his father was cranky lately because he was pulled over by the cops every few days. He was right that it seemed far more than normal. It actually seemed weird. There were kids in his school that had a car, and others who took their parents' cars with or without permission, and he was sure the rumour of a special traffic operation by the sheriff's department would have gotten around, considering it was the teenage drivers that were usually easy target for the cops. There was no such word at school whatsoever. And he saw a cruiser sail down Orchard Street a few times during the last two weeks, more than he'd seen since they moved here.

The sheriff's department wasn't tergeting drunk drivers. It was targeting John Winchester.

But why would they do that? If Bobby and Karen alerted the sheriff of possible child abuse, wouldn't the cops arrest first and ask questions later? Why take the time and effort to bug John with registrations checks when for all they knew there might be children at risk in his home? None of this made sense.

He could be just paranoid, of course. This could all be some fucked-up coincidence of sorts. He couldn't know for sure, and it wasn't like he could ask the Singers about it. It wasn't like he could ask _anybody_ about it. But he wondered what the hell the people who were doing this thought they were accomplishing. So far it only got John irritated and made him stay at home, like tonight. And if he did get arrested for DUI or finally lashing out at a cop after they got on his nerves one time too many, social services might come into the picture after all.

Dean leaned against the counter, dropped his head and closed his eyes. He felt like something was closing in on him, something he didn't know how to fight. He stayed there for a minute, and then inhaled deeply and straighten up. It didn't matter. This wouldn't go on for much longer. It couldn't. And his father was a violent, short-tempered drunk, but he wasn't stupid. John knew somebody at the sheriff's department had him in their sights, even if he didn't think it was anything personal, and he would make sure to be careful from now on. Dean was sure of it.

He was wrong.

When John was late one evening, more than a week later, Dean thought nothing of it. Drinking alone at home was fine and dandy to a point, but John could only afford beer and those cheap-ass brands of whiskey, and that wouldn't do for long. When he was drinking with the guys from either the garage or the factory, he could more often than not get them to buy him the brands he wouldn't purchase with his own money. Sure, any type of ethanol drowned his everyday pains with similar efficiency, but both the hangover and the road to it were much more comfortable in a limo rather than in a beat-up Toyota.

Dean wasn't going to wait up for him, anyway. He might come back any minute, or at midnight, or way past that, and it's not like he ever bothered to call. When it was time for dinner, Dean put the food out and sat with Sam and Adam for a long-deserved quiet family meal. He looked at the boys while they ate, noting that theit thin faces seemed to be filling up some – Karen was persistent in stuffing them up every chance she got, a bit like the witch from the Hansel and Gretel fairytale, although Karen most probably wasn't planning on cooking them after they fattened up.

Sam helped Adam prepare for bed while Dean cleaned up, and then the three of them spent a pleasant half an hour cuddled together reading a bedtime story. Adam was nodding off by the time they finished, and Dean tucked him in next to Sam, who was already flipping through the book he borrowed from Bobby today.

Dean made a sweep through the small house to tidy up whatever was out of place and returned to the kitchen. He took out his schoolbooks, poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. He was halfway through the coffee and nowhere on his homework when Sam showed up.

"Burning the midnight oil?" He asked as he filled a glass of water.

"Damned English assignment. I forgot all about it and it's due tomorrow."

"How's it going?" Dean made a face and Sam giggled. "Let me see that. Is this 'The Catcher in the Rye'?"

"Yeah. Don't tell me you've read it."

"Sure I did. I can do that for you," It would have been weird to have a seventh-grader help an eleventh-grader with his homework, but this was Sammy, the Boy Wizard of Mensa Land. Dean didn't even hasitate before turning the papers around to where Sam took a seat at the table.

"Want me to make you some hot cocoa while you save my ass?"

"Yep. Don't forget the-"

"Cold milk, just a tad," Dean tousled Sam's hair on his way to the cupboard. "It doesn't need to be an A-plus thing, dude. Make it a B or the credibility's shut."

"Ah-huh," Sam was already scanning Dean's notes.

Dean smiled at the way his brother's brow creased in concentration and went to get the milk from the fridge. His hand was on the handle when the lock on the front door clicked. A second later the door was slammed so hard, it made both boys jump.

It took John only seven heavy strides to reach the kitchen's door, and as soon as Sam saw his face, he scampered off his chair. Dean moved to put himself between his father and his little brother.

"Outta my way," John growled, his eyes on Sam.

"What happened?" Dean carefully followed John's movements while Sam backed away further.

"I'll tell you what happened. What happened is that this little fucker had the sheriff's department on my ass for a month now, today they finally managed to arrest me, but they couldn't keep me in custody because they wouldn't know a probable cause if it bit them in the ass. And now the son of a bitch that started all this is gonna pay."

"What are you talkin' about? Sam didn't do anything," Dean could hear Sam's breathing becoming rapid behind him. "How could he possibly have the sheriff's department on you?"

"I don't know and I don't care. All I know is that the punk-ass deputy took me in for arguing with him over a sobriety test, and while I was at the station I overheard the dumbass cop calling the sheriff saying he got that guy she was talking about. Why would the sheriff even know about me if someone haven't been whining to her?" John was moving forward constantly, slowly, and Dean backed away around the table with Sam behind him.

"That don't mean Sam had anything to do with it."

"Who else would even fucking care to get me in trouble? Huh? It's not like _you'd_ have either the brains or the balls."

"Could be somebody from the garage or the factory that's pissed at you," they were slowly making their way around the table and toward the kitchen door. Just a bit more and Sam would be able to get out.

"Ain't nobody pissed at me there or nowhere else. And if there was, they'd tell it to my face and settle it out back, like real men, and not by squealing to the sheriff like a fucking two-faced cowerdly bitch."

Dean took another step, reached his hand back to grab Sam, and pushed him to the doorway. From the corner of his eye he saw the kid bolt out of the kitchen and nearly let out a sigh of relief. John made a quick move forward, but Dean planted himself in his way.

"Sam didn't call the sheriff's department," he said quietly, looking at his father dead in the eye. "I did. You drive around drunk all the time, I was worried you'd get in an accident and get hurt, or hurt someone else. I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

John's fist crushing into his face felt like he was hit with an anvile. Dean was knocked back the short distance to the wall, blood gushing from his nose. He was still dazed from the first punch when a second followed, and then a third. John grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him away from the wall.

"You were trying to fuck with me? That it?" It was a low, venomous growl, with John's face only an inch from Dean's. "Well, guess what, boy. You fuck with me, I fuck you up." He slammed Dean hard into the wall, pulled him forward again, and turned so he could push him out of the kitchen.

Dean fell down, only barely managing to keep from hitting his head on the floor. John's brutal kick to his side practically rolled him over. He only had time to weakly raise his arms to try and cover his head when a flurry of punches descended on him.

Dean was being engulfed in a red blur of pain. He didn't feel the floor beneath him anymore; he was drifting into a dark crimson cloud, and even the blows that kept coming seemed distant now, as if he was being punched through a heavy quilt.

From far away, behind the cloud, he heard shouting and noises that must have been loud, but sounded muffled and alien. The sounds went on for a while – he couldn't tell how long – and even though he strained to understand what the voices were shouting he just couldn't make it out. The punches had stopped coming. At least so he thought, he wasn't entirely sure of that. Through the thick quilt of red he could feel from a distance that he was being touched, his body being moved. It wasn't his father that was doing that, couldn't be.

"Dean? Dean? Wake up, please, Dean, wake up!"

Sammy, crying. Was he hurt? Did Dad finally get him? A wave of white panic rose in him, and he rode it up, tearing through the red fog and back into consciousness. He opened his eyes, blinked at the sudden light, and made himself look around.

He was still lying on the floor, but now his head was cradled in Sam's lap. He gazed up at his brother's face – his eyes were puffy and red and his cheeks streaked with tears, but he didn't seem injured. Adam was pressed firmly into Sam's side, his little hands clutching fistfuls of his shirt. Sam let out a shaky breath when he saw Dean was awake, and through the pounding pain Dean could feel his fingers lightly patting his face.

And there were others around. Dean scanned them with eyes that couldn't quite focus. He recognized Bobby kneeling on the floor next to him, and beside him a dark-haired woman with a big metal star on her brown uniform jacket.

"Dean? Do you hear me, kid?" Bobby leaned closer. Dean nodded slowly. The small movement made him a little dizzy. "Don't try to move, okay? You'll be just fine." He glanced over at the sheriff. "Where the hell are the damn paramedics?!"

"They'll be here any minute now," she turned to Dean and smiled a little. "Dean, I'm Sheriff Jody Mills. You're safe, your father is under arrest. Sam called Bobby, and it so happened that I was at the Singers', so I sent in all the cruisers and put the pedal to the floor. The deputies got here in a matter of minutes." She paused before asking, gently, "Dean, was that the first time your father beat you?"

Dean glanced up at Sam and Adam. There was a new pain in his chest that had nothing to do with what his dad just did. His eyes pricked with tears. He looked at Bobby, back at his brothers, and then closed his eyes and felt the tears spill out of them. "No," he whispered, the air like shreds of glass in his throat. "Not the first time."

Sheriff Mills talked again with the same gentle tone. "How many times did it happen?"

"I don't- I don't know. Every few weeks or so. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Never this bad before."

"Did he hurt Sam or Adam?"

"No," it was Sam who answered now, his voice still tearful, but also determined. "Dean never let him get us." Dean looked up at him, and Sam smiled a wavy little smile and ran a hand through Dean's blood-streaked hair. "He never let him."

The noise of a siren blasted, still far but getting closer. Bobby mumbled, "about damn time," and groaned his way to his feet, patting Sam on the shoulder as he went. Sheriff Mills nodded at Dean before too getting to her feet.

Dean glanced up at Sam and Adam again, the pain and tears blurred their sweet, pale faces. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Sam had an arm around Adam, the other hand still on Dean. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes again and tried to detach himself, to feel nothing – no pain, no cold, no despair, only Sam's hand still raking slowly through his hair.


	8. Coming Your Way

Bobby took the last sip of lukewarm, disgusting coffee from the paper cup, tossed it into the waste basket and rubbed a hand down his face. He then glanced at his watch and at Karen who was sitting in the nearby chair, hands clutching her purse.

It had been hours since the ambulance brought them to Sioux Falls General, with Sam riding in the back near Dean's stretcher and Adam in the front with Bobby – they tried to make the younger kids, or at least Adam, stay with Karen, who had followed Jody's cruiser to Orchard Street in her car, but Sam would not budge from Dean's side and Adam practically _shrieked_ when they tried to touch him, so Bobby just muttered "balls," and let them pile into the ambulance.

Hours, and neither of the boys said a word.

Dean had responded shortly to the doctors and nurses when they talked to him, but other than that he was dead silent. Sam and Adam refused to leave his side even as he was wheeled from one examination room to the other, Adam holding firmly on Sam's coat and the both of them always in Dean's line of sight and slipping their hands into his whenever they could.

Now Dean was with Sam and Adam in the private room he was settled into, while Bobby and Karen sat outside. They had so much to talk about, but, like the boys, they didn't say a word; just sipped the tasteless coffee and watched the random nurse that passed them by and listened to the chorus of a dozen little nightly noises of the sleepy ward.

The ding of the elevator was loud as a gong in the quiet hall. Bobby and Karen stood up as they saw Jody and Castiel coming toward them. Bobby looked at Jody and she nodded at him.

"Is he awake?"

"Yeah. Checked on him ten minutes ago. He wouldn’t let them give him any morphine, too afraid to fall asleep."

Jody nodded again. "Alright. Let's go."

They opened the door quietly and went in, Jody in the lead. Sam and Adam were lying on the hospital bed on either side of Dean, their heads on his shoulders and his arms around them. He was staring into the air, but as the four adults came in, he turned his head toward them, and his arms tightened their hold on his brothers.

"Please, don't take them away from me," the broken, desperate whisper made Bobby's heart clench. "Please. I can't… please."

Jody spoke, her voice calm and warm. "No one is taking them away, Dean. Bobby and Karen are being given temporary custody of all three of you. Castiel had prepared a comprehensive psychological evaluation determining that it is to the best of your interest to not be separated and to be put under Bobby and Karen's care for the duration of your father's legal proceedings. We dragged the head of the social services department out of his bed to get a proper warrant. He had just called me to let me know the judge signed it off."

Dean stared at her, wide eyed – even his left eye that was swollen nearly shut – and then looked at Bobby and Karen. "You're… you're taking us in?"

"You bet we are, kid," Bobby had tried to sound gruff, but couldn't quite make it.

"Why would you do that?" Dean sounded utterly amazed and disbelieving, and Bobby's heart clenched some more. He pushed forward past Jody.

"Because you deserve to have a good life, Dean," he said softly. "You and Sam and Adam. And Karen 'n me, we can give you that life. We never had children, we never will. But we have a big house, more than enough money and a lot of heart. It's yours if you want it."

Dean just looked at him, the expression of disbelief still on his bruised face. A single tear made its way down his cheek. And then he smiled. His swollen face made the smile look somewhat crooked, but it was more genuine than Bobby had ever seen on him.

"Yeah," he whispered. "We want it. We want it very much."

Around him Bobby could hear a sigh, soft and warm, like an angel's breath. He smiled back at Dean, and then coughed and cleared his throat. "Ain't no charity, boy. As soon as you're up and around I'm gonna put your ass to work at the yard, you hear?"

"Deal," the smile lingered, sparkling in the good right eye.

"Why don't we let you rest a bit?" Karen said. "We can take Sam and Adam home now."

Dean looked down at his brothers and then up again. "Can they stay? Just a little longer?"

Karen smiled softly and gave each of their three heads a little caress. "Of course. Of course they can." She found another blanket and draped it over them. Dean settled back and closed his eyes, and even though his face was so bruised and beaten, Bobby could see that it was, finally, peaceful.


	9. Epilogue - Find The River

Bobby eased the truck into the parking spot, killed the engine and glanced over at Dean. The boy just stared at the big, ugly, grey building in front of them.

"You don't have to do it, you know," Bobby said at last. "It wasn't a condition. It's just a request. He'll sign the plea bargain whether you come to see him or not."

"I know," Dean's eyes were still on the building, his face expressionless. Neither of them said anything for a while, and then Dean took a breath and straigheted up. "Okay, let's go in."

They went through the security procedures and into the visitors' hall of the county jail. A heavy wall of glass and metal ran through the center of the room, dividing the visitors' side from the inmates' and creating a row of windows with small circular devices set in the center of each one to allow voices through the divider. The windows were only half occupied with inmates and visitors, and as Bobby and Dean walked in, John Winchester was brought out to the other side. The jailor directed him to the far end of the row and he sat down by the window. He looked… diminished somehow, all the air of roughness and raw power gone.

Dean stood by Bobby, watching his father, and then resolve crossed his face and he walked over and sat opposite to John.

Bobby drew a bit closer, not wanting to disturb Dean – he gave exactly zero fucks about disturbing John – but wanting to stay nearby so he could watch over him. For the first few minutes, though, the father and son only looked at each other through the glass. Bobby carefuly studied Dean's face for any sign of distress, but it was as expressionless as before.

At last John spoke. "Thank you. For coming. I didn't think you'd want to."

Dean didn't reply.

"I don't… I have nothing I can really say for myself. To say I'm sorry would probably mean nothing to you. I can try and ask for forgiveness, but it's not gonna undo anything, not gonna fix anything. And I know I have no right to…" he stopped to take a breath and passed a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry, Dean. For what it's worth, I am. I wish I could say I'd make it up to you, but I can't. Not what I did. I fucked your life up, yours and your brothers', and I can't make it up to you. I just wanted-" he took another breath and shook his head slightly.

Dean stayed silent for a long moment, and then he spoke, his voice quiet and even. "In three months, on January 24th, I'll turn eighteen. That's Friday. On Monday, January 27th, I'm filing the request to be granted permanent custody of Sam and Adam."

John nodded, slowly. "I thought you would. I won't fight it. That piss-poor public lawer they gave me thinks I should, but I won't. Adam is gonna be over eighteen by the time I'll get out, and anyway, you are more of a father to them than I've ever been." He looked down at his hands. "They're gonna get me into therapy here. After I sign the plea bargain. I never believed in this kind of thing. That's for pussies, right?" He smiled a humorless smile and raised his eyes. "I should have gotten that pussy-therapy years ago. I don't know if it would have made a difference then, but it might have. Everything could have been different." The smile was gone, his voice was down to a whisper. "It could have been different. Everything."

Bobby watched Dean's face. The bruises and cuts that marred it so horribly only some months before were completely gone, leaving no mark. At least not one that could be seen on the outside. That face seemed emotionless now, as beautiful and cold as that of a stone angel. But Bobby got to know Dean; well enough to see the tiny, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth, the ever so light hint of moisture on his lower eyelids.

"It should have been different," Dean whispered back. Then he suddenly stood up, turned his back on the glass window and started walking away.

John got to his feet. "Dean?"

Dean halted, but didn't turn.

"You're a better man than me. You'll make your life a good one, yours and Sam's and Adam's. I know you will. And if you'll ever… if you'll ever want to forgive me… if…" he seemed to choke on his words, and then regained his voice again. "I'll wait. I'll wait for you, son."

Dean stood there a moment longer, his shoulders shaking slightly. Then he turned to look at his father.

"Goodbye, Dad," he said, quietly.

When he started walking away again, he didn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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